Petite Pierre


A forest, a fortress made of stone at the foot of the Vosges Mountains in eastern France, close to the german border (our drivers remind us that their parents went to german school when they were little, and that the place is riddled with artificial lakes – meant to be a liquid Ligne Maginot that would flood the area in the event of an invasion). The jazz festival takes place on the small square at the entrance of the citadel, by 8pm it is full and crowded with people who drove from all corners of Alsace. Our dressing-rooms are setup inside the castle itself, protected by walls two meter-thick. We go for a quiet show, that slowly builds up. The audience itself is extremely quiet and concentrated, an eerie contrast to the big summer festivals we’re going through this summer. At one point during Julie Gold’s solo, Tom leaves the stage in pitch darkness, and when Rosemary finally catches him in her spotlight we realize he’s perched on top of the castle’s wall, 40 meters above the moat, keeping a fragile balance like Humpty-Dumpty.

Moriarty on tour: Festival de Jazz de la Petite Pierre (F), 09.08.2012.








By isabella